cento, after Christian Wiman's Every Riven Thing and Brian Teare's Pleasure

Elegy: Diagnosis

I could not explain how I saw the end of things,
It seemed they made their way back every morning from the dead.
Those were good times, the end times.
It began like this, almost out of the ground:
He looked up stunned
wind ripping at his rooftop for days
I lost him because this was not punishment enough.
He went laughing off to kill,
but what work does death do
that I haven’t already done to keep you?
I wanted us to live forever
in a time when time stopped
in a knot from which no man escapes,
and if you die you die alone
staring into the darkening window
as if squinting to see them cut their throats
to see what was shining fall
because what is real
dies as its own elegy
in a bed where a body should be.
Anatomy Anatomy
Whale Blue Review

Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me
Last edited by jiminizzle at Dec 3, 2011,